Robbie Rapids drops “Class 2 Rapids” onto the table like a heavy set of keys to houses you used to live in, but can’t quite remember the address of. This Atlanta-based Gen X rocker has assembled a collection that feels less like a polished studio product and more like a glove compartment mixtape that has survived three car wrecks and a cross-country move. It is a “sonic adventure” that refuses to sit still, fidgeting between genres with the restless energy of someone trying to find a comfortable sleeping position on a Greyhound bus.
The album opens with a nervous twitch. “Hand Loose” is frantic, indie rock anxiety distilled into audio. The jangling strumming mimics the precise feeling of having had three espressos too many while late for a meeting that could determine your employment. It captures the suffocation of the modern grid that desperate need to disconnect before your internal wiring snaps. But just as you settle into that panic, Rapids pivots.
Suddenly, we are awash in the neon glow of “Dance with Me.” It’s a synth-pop indulgence that smells faintly of ozone and cheap hairspray. It summons the ghost of 1980s longing, asking if the person across the dance floor is destiny or just a trick of the strobe lights. It’s cinematic in the way memory is cinematic glossier than the reality ever was.
Then, there is the delightful absurdity. I found myself strangely captivated by “Mule of Mine,” a lo-fi, outsider pop track about a farm animal with better vacation plans than I have. It’s eccentric and unpolished, sounding like a nursery rhyme recorded inside a fever dream. It reminds me of the time I saw a tuxedo cat sitting on a pile of garbage in an alleyway dignified, out of place, and undeniably funny. This pairs oddly well with “Fishing the River,” an alt-country stumble through freezing water and family inadequacy, capturing the specific damp misery of outdoor hobbies we claim to enjoy but secretly dread.
Rapids doesn’t shy away from the heavy lifting, though. “Black Roses” is a wall of fuzz and distortion that screams of finality. It’s the sound of throwing a box of belongings onto a front lawn. Yet, he counters this with “Big Bam Boom,” a glam rock stomper that feels like crushed velvet and spilled beer. It’s boisterous, a stadium anthem for a stadium that exists only in our heads.
The album bookends its emotional core with two versions of “Dream Away,” exploring a nostalgia that aches in the chest. It’s the sonic equivalent of staring out a rainy window on a Tuesday. And then, with a stroke of genius or madness, the album closes with “Sound effect of man falling asleep.” After the genre-hopping, the heartbreak, the fishing mishaps, and the mule chasing, the man is simply tired.
“Class 2 Rapids” is a chaotic, messy, and deeply human record. It makes me wonder: if we recorded the disparate, nonsensical thoughts we have in a single day, would it sound exactly like this?
